


The Best Laid Plans

by saintdoriangray



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintdoriangray/pseuds/saintdoriangray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This particular plan was a simple one: Derek would run. And he’d call Stiles every night to let him know Derek was still running. And Stiles would only call Derek once he’d found something to get rid of the herd of cursed banshees. And then Derek could come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Laid Plans

Derek sleepily rubbed at his cheek before dialing the payphone. His stubble was starting to feel itchy and the Sedona sun wasn’t doing any favors for the prickling under his skin. He wanted to make time to shave and shower before running again, but it was already 7:18 and the sun would set in less than half an hour. He’d survive.  
  
He just had to let Stiles know that too.  
  
(707) 867-5309.  
  
He wiped his fingers on his jeans and prayed to whichever deity decided to bless him with his special brand of luck that his werewolf abilities extended to disinfecting his hand before he magically ended up with herpes. _In his hand_.  
  
The phone picked up on the second ring and Derek let out a sigh. He could hear Stiles’ phone shuffle a bit, clicking against fingernails and ruffling against what was probably Stiles’ red hoodie. This was good. Stiles was still there and alive and breathing and his fingers were working since he could pick up the phone and his hands weren’t broken because he could hold it, and Derek’s heartbeat slowed in relief. He could practically hear Stiles’ smile at the other end of the line, and he definitely heard that little scoff of amusement.  
  
 _Yes, I miss you, too_ , he thought.  
  
In the 93 calls to Stiles’ phone he’d made in the 97 days since he’d ran away from Beacon Hills, they’d hardly spoken a word. Part of Derek liked to believe they didn’t need to, that somehow Stiles knew from the cant of his breath and the rustling of the wind how much Derek missed Beacon Hills.  
  
(Just like Derek knew from the beating of his heart that everyone was safe and sound.)  
  
But it was all part of a plan. Of course it was part of a plan. That’s what Stiles did. Plan. He had a plan for the time all of his betas got stuck in detention and the time when Scott got stuck in the dryer and the time when corporation representatives were starting to scope out the subway station for renovation.  
  
This particular plan was a simple one: Derek would run. And he’d call Stiles every night to let him know Derek was still running. And Stiles would only call Derek once he’d found something to get rid of the herd of cursed banshees. And then Derek could come home.  
  
Originally, it started with just a simple pick up and hang up. Derek would call and he’d hear the scratch of Stiles’ pen as he made a note of the date and time, and then they’d both hang up. And then Derek went off the grid in the Mojave desert for four days. And when Stiles picked up the phone that night, Derek could swear he heard the tiniest hitch of breath and a pained, “ _Derek_ ,” before the flood of sobs. Derek had cradled the dirty payphone to his mouth and whispered reassurances into the receiver until sundown. And Derek called every day after, each time, wishing more desperately he could press kisses to a forehead belonging to a boy who surely wanted them just as much.  
  
He ran his fingers through his greasy hair before freezing in his own disgust. Right. Herpes. Ugh. He shook his head and continued fiddling with his hair anyways. The clock towering over the gas station pointed to thirteen minutes till sundown.  
  
And he took those thirteen minutes to breathe in a Stiles who was 937 miles away, safe from the banshees chasing his tail, safe from the Alphas vying for revenge, and safe from the hunters still pissed off about the death of Kate Argent.  
  
At 7:42, the sky faded from blue to orange to pink to purple and finally to the black of night. Derek hung up the phone with a grin and started off in a sprint, the wailing of banshees behind him.  
\--------------  
  
In an almost empty two story house back in Beacon Hills, Sheriff Stilinski pocketed his dead son’s cell phone and patted the corner of a dusty picture frame.  
  
“You did good, kid.”

\--------------  


“It has to be you, Mr. Stilinski,” Scott barely managed to choke out.  
  
The Sheriff took another long swig of his bourbon and Melissa poured it to the top again, bless her heart. “Why me, Scott? I can’t--I’ve got a town to run. I’ve got a county to run.”  
  
“Because I’ll tell him.” Scott sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He’ll know it’s me and not Stiles and he’ll come back, and then nobody in this town--in this _county_ \--will be safe. Believe me, the farther away Derek Hale is from Beacon Hills, the safer everyone is.”  
  
The Sheriff’s lips twitched. “Is that what my son said to you? Is that what that stupid son of a bitch had you believe? Because _my son_ is _dead_ now, Scott. And I’m not sure that fits the definition of the word _safe_."  
  
\--------------  
  
“I’m not sure what’ll give him the worse heart attack, dude. You dying or you coming back.”  
  
“Relax, Scooter. Just keep him drunk 8 out of 7 nights of the week and he’ll be fine. It’s only for a couple weeks anyways. I just need time to run some errands, gather some ingredients, talk to some people.”  
  
“And find Derek.”  
  
“Like I could forget our Ace in the Werewolf-y Butthole.”  
  
“Ew.” Scott fumbled with the phone and tried not to wince at the imagery. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Stiles?”  
  
“Plans. Scott. I have carefully constructed plans. We’ve finally recuperated enough to stop playing on the defensive and take the fight to the witches. They think I’m _dead_ and I’m pretty sure they think Derek’s mostly useless--which to be honest, without me, he totally is. They’ll never see what’s coming.”  
  
Besides, he had a very important message for a very important Alpha wolf that he absolutely had to deliver in person: It was time to come home.


End file.
